Chapter 5

Best way to read a book I know Is get a lad of six or so, And curl him up upon my knee Deep in a big arm chair, where we Can catch the warmth of blazing coals, And then let two contented souls Melt into one, old age and youth, Sharing adventure's marvelous truth.

I read a page, and then we sit And talk it over, bit by bit; Just how the pirates looked, and why They flung a black flag to the sky. We pass no paragraph without First knowing what it's all about, And when the author starts a fight We join the forces that are right.

We're deep in Treasure Island, and From Spy Glass Hill we've viewed the land; Through thickets dense we've followed Jim And shared the doubts that came to him. We've heard Cap. Smollett arguing there With Long John Silver, gaunt and spare, And mastering our many fears We've battled with those buccaneers.

Best way to read a book I've found Is have a little boy around And take him up upon your knee; Then talk about the tale, till he Lives it and feels it, just as you, And shares the great adventure, too. Books have a deep and lasting joy For him who reads them to his boy.

The Song of Loved Ones

The father toils at his work all day, And he hums this song as he plods away: "Heigho! for the mother and babe of three Who watch at the window each night for me. Their smiles are ever before my eyes, And never the sound of their voices dies, But ever and ever they seem to say, 'Love waits for you at the close of day.'"

At home, a mother is heard to croon To a little babe, this simple tune: "Heigho! for the father who toils to-day, He thinks of us, though he's far away; He soon will come with a happy tread, And stooping over your trundle bed, Your little worries he'll kiss away; Love comes to us at the close of day."

Becoming a Dad

Old women say that men don't know The pain through which all mothers go, And maybe that is true, and yet I vow I never shall forget The night he came. I suffered, too, Those bleak and dreary long hours through; I paced the floor and mopped my brow And waited for his glad wee-ow! I went upstairs and then came down, Because I saw the doctor frown And knew beyond the slightest doubt He wished to goodness I'd clear out.

I walked into the yard for air And back again to hear her there, And met the nurse, as calm as though My world was not in deepest woe, And when I questioned, seeking speech Of consolation that would reach Into my soul and strengthen me For dreary hours that were to be: "Progressing nicely!" that was all She said and tip-toed down the hall; "Progressing nicely!" nothing more, And left me there to pace the floor.

And once the nurse came out in haste For something that had been misplaced, And I that had been growing bold Then felt my blood grow icy cold; And fear's stern chill swept over me. I stood and watched and tried to see Just what it was she came to get. I haven't learned that secret yet. I half-believe that nurse in white Was adding fuel to my fright And taking an unholy glee, From time to time, in torturing me.

Then silence! To her room I crept And was informed the doctor slept! The doctor slept! Oh, vicious thought, While she at death's door bravely fought And suffered untold anguish deep, The doctor lulled himself to sleep. I looked and saw him stretched out flat And could have killed the man for that. Then morning broke, and oh, the joy; With dawn there came to us our boy, And in a glorious little while I went in there and saw her smile!

I must have looked a human wreck, My collar wilted at the neck, My hair awry, my features drawn With all the suffering I had borne. She looked at me and softly said, "If I were you, I'd go to bed." Hers was the bitterer part, I know; She traveled through the vale of woe, But now when women folks recall The pain and anguish of it all I answer them in manner sad: "It's no cinch to become a dad."

The Test

You can brag about the famous men you know; You may boast about the great men you have met, Parsons, eloquent and wise; stars in histrionic skies; Millionaires and navy admirals, and yet Fame and power and wealth and glory vanish fast; They are lusters that were never made to stick, And the friends worth-while and true, are the happy smiling few Who come to call upon you when you're sick.

You may think it very fine to know the great; You may glory in some leader's words of praise; You may tell with eyes aglow of the public men you know, But the true friends seldom travel glory's ways, And the day you're lying ill, lonely, pale and keeping still, With a fevered pulse, that's beating double quick, Then it is you must depend on the old-familiar friend To come to call upon you when you're sick.

It is pleasing to receive a great man's nod, And it's good to know the big men of the land, But the test of friendship true, isn't merely: "Howdy-do?" And a willingness to shake you by the hand. If you want to know the friends who love you best, And the faithful from the doubtful you would pick, It is not a mighty task; of yourself you've but to ask: "Does he come to call upon me when I'm sick?"

The Old Wooden Tub

I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone, When there were joys that never more the world will look upon, The days before inventors smoothed the little cares away And made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day; When bathrooms were exceptions, and we got our weekly scrub By standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.

We had no rapid heaters, and no blazing gas to burn, We boiled the water on the stove, and each one took his turn. Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two; The water brother Billy used for me would also do, Although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit, On winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.

We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails, And sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails, But if the nights were very cold, by closing every door We were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor. Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub, In comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.

But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun, And through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run; No little flying forms go past, too swift to see their charms, With shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms; The home's so full of luxury now, it's almost like a club, I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.

Lost Opportunities

"When I am rich," he used to say, "A thousand joys I'll give away; I'll walk among the poor I find And unto one and all be kind. I'll place a wreath of roses red Upon the bier of all my dead; I'll help the struggling youth to climb; In doing good I'll spend my time; To all in need I'll friendly be The day that fortune smiles on me."

He never guessed that being kind Depends upon the heart and mind And not upon the purse at all; That poor men's gifts, however small, Make light some weary traveler's load And smooth for him his troubled road. He never knew or understood The fellowship of doing good. Because he had not much to spare He thought it vain to give his share.

Yet many passed him, day by day, He might have helped along the way. He fancied kindness something which Belongs entirely to the rich. And so he lived and toiled for gold, Unsympathetic, harsh and cold, Intending all the time to share The burdens that his brothers bear When he possessed great wealth, and he Could well afford a friend to be.

His fortune came, but, oh, too late; The poor about him could not wait. They never guessed and never knew The things that he had meant to do. Few knew how much he'd planned to give If God had only let him live. And when at last his form was cold, All that he'd left on earth was gold. A kindly name is something which A man must earn before he's rich.

Patriotism

I think my country needs my vote, I know it doesn't need my throat, My lungs and larynx, too; And so I sit at home at night And teach my children what is right And wise for them to do; And when I'm on the job by day I do my best to earn my pay.

Though arguments may rage and roar; I grease the hinges on my door And paint the porches blue; I love this splendid land of ours, And so I plant the seeds and flowers And watch them bursting through. I never stand upon a box To say we're headed for the rocks.

My notion of a patriot Is one who guards his little cot, And keeps it up to date; Who pays his taxes when they're due, And pays his bills for groc'ries, too, And dresses well his mate; He keeps his children warmly clad And lets them know they have a dad.

The nation's safe as long as men Get to their work and back again Each day with cheerful smile; So long as there are fathers who Rejoice in what they have to do And find their homes worth while, The Stars and Stripes will wave on high And liberty will never die.

The Tramp

Eagerly he took my dime, Then shuffled on his way, Thick with sin and filth and grime, But I wondered all that day How the man had gone astray.

Not to him the dime I gave; Not unto the man of woe, Not to him who should be brave, Not to him who'd sunk so low, But the boy of long ago.

Passed his years of sin and shame Through the filth that all could see, Out of what he is there came One more pitiful to me: Came the boy that used to be.

Smiling, full of promise glad, Stood a baby, like my own; I beheld a glorious lad, Someone once had loved and known Out of which this wreck had grown!

Where, thought I, must lie the blame? Who has failed in such a way? As all children come he came, There's a soul within his clay; Who has led his feet astray?

As he shuffled down the hall With the coin I'd never miss, What, thought I, were fame and all Man may gain of earthly bliss, If my child should come to this!

The Lonely Garden

I wonder what the trees will say, The trees that used to share his play, An' knew him as the little lad Who used to wander with his dad. They've watched him grow from year to year Since first the good Lord sent him here. This shag-bark hick'ry, many a time, The little fellow tried t' climb, An' never a spring has come but he Has called upon his favorite tree. I wonder what they all will say When they are told he's marched away.

I wonder what the birds will say, The swallow an' the chatterin' jay, The robin, an' the kill-deer, too. For every one o' them, he knew, An' every one o' them knew him, An' hoppin' there from limb t' limb, Waited each spring t' tell him all They'd done an' seen since 'way last fall. He was the first to greet 'em here As they returned from year t' year; An' now I wonder what they'll say When they are told he's marched away.

I wonder how the roses there Will get along without his care, An' how the lilac bush will face The loneliness about th' place; For ev'ry spring an' summer, he Has been the chum o' plant an' tree, An' every livin' thing has known A comradeship that's finer grown, By havin' him from year t' year. Now very soon they'll all be here, An' I am wonderin' what they'll say When they find out he's marched away.

The Silver Stripes

When we've honored the heroes returning from France And we've mourned for the heroes who fell, When we've done all we can for the homecoming man Who stood to the shot and the shell, Let us all keep in mind those who lingered behind-- The thousands who waited to go-- The brave and the true, who did all they could do, Yet have only the silver to show.

They went from their homes at the summons for men, They drilled in the heat of the sun, They fell into line with a pluck that was fine; Each cheerfully shouldered a gun. They were ready to die for Old Glory on high, They were eager to meet with the foe; They were just like the rest of our bravest and best, Though they've only the silver to show.

Their bodies stayed here, but their spirits were there; And the boys who looked death in the face, For the cause had no fear--for they knew, waiting here, There were many to fill up each place. Oh, the ships came and went, till the battle was spent And the tyrant went down with the blow! But he still might have reigned but for those who remained And have only the silver to show.

So here's to the soldiers who never saw France, And here's to the boys unafraid! Let us give them their due; they were glorious, too, And it isn't their fault that they stayed. They were eager to share in the sacrifice there; Let them share in the peace that we know. For we know they were brave, by the service they gave, Though they've only the silver to show.

Tinkerin' at Home

Some folks there be who seem to need excitement fast and furious, An' reckon all the joys that have no thrill in 'em are spurious. Some think that pleasure's only found down where the lights are shining, An' where an orchestra's at work the while the folks are dining. Still others seek it at their play, while some there are who roam, But I am happiest when I am tinkerin' 'round the home.

I like to wear my oldest clothes, an' fuss around the yard, An' dig a flower bed now an' then, and pensively regard The mornin' glories climbin' all along the wooden fence, An' do the little odds an' ends that aren't of consequence. I like to trim the hedges, an' touch up the paint a bit, An' sort of take a homely pride in keepin' all things fit. An' I don't envy rich folks who are sailin' o'er the foam When I can spend a day or two in tinkerin' 'round the home.

If I were fixed with money, as some other people are, I'd take things mighty easy; I'd not travel very far. I'd jes' wear my oldest trousers an' my flannel shirt, an' stay An' guard my vine an' fig tree in an old man's tender way. I'd bathe my soul in sunshine every mornin', and I'd bend My back to pick the roses; Oh, I'd be a watchful friend To everything around the place, an' in the twilight gloam I'd thank the Lord for lettin' me jes' tinker 'round the home.

But since I've got to hustle in the turmoil of the town, An' don't expect I'll ever be allowed to settle down An' live among the roses an' the tulips an' the phlox, Or spend my time in carin' for the noddin' hollyhocks, I've come to the conclusion that perhaps in Heaven I may Get a chance to know the pleasures that I'm yearnin' for to-day; An' I'm goin' to ask the good Lord, when I've climbed the golden stair, If he'll kindly let me tinker 'round the home we've got up there.

When An Old Man Gets to Thinking

When an old man gets to thinking of the years he's traveled through, He hears again the laughter of the little ones he knew. He isn't counting money, and he isn't planning schemes; He's at home with friendly people in the shadow of his dreams.

When he's lived through all life's trials and his sun is in the west, When he's tasted all life's pleasures and he knows which ones were best, Then his mind is stored with riches, not of silver and of gold, But of happy smiling faces and the joys he couldn't hold.

Could we see what he is seeing as he's dreaming in his chair, We should find no scene of struggle in the distance over there. As he counts his memory treasures, we should see some shady lane Where's he walking with his sweetheart, young, and arm in arm again.

We should meet with friendly people, simple, tender folk and kind, That had once been glad to love him. In his dreaming we should find All the many little beauties that enrich the lives of men That the eyes of youth scarce notice and the poets seldom pen.

Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man. Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can; For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friend And the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end.

My Job

I wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat, And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat? And who has every day to face a finer round of care Than buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear?

Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do, And think an all-important post has been assigned to you, But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose; I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes.

I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be, And little gold or little fame may come from it to me; It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joy Than buying little breeches for a sturdy little boy.

My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks; It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks; To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout, And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out.

I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king, I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling; I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys, Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys.

A Good Name

Men talk too much of gold and fame, And not enough about a name; And yet a good name's better far Than all earth's glistening jewels are. Who holds his name above all price And chooses every sacrifice To keep his earthly record clear, Can face the world without a fear.

Who never cheats nor lies for gain, A poor man may, perhaps, remain, Yet, when at night he goes to rest, No little voice within his breast Disturbs his slumber. Conscience clear, He falls asleep with naught to fear And when he wakes the world to face He is not tainted by disgrace.

Who keeps his name without a stain Wears no man's brand and no man's chain; He need not fear to speak his mind In dread of what the world may find. He then is master of his will; None may command him to be still, Nor force him, when he would stand fast, To flinch before his hidden past.

Not all the gold that men may claim Can cover up a deed of shame; Not all the fame of victory sweet Can free the man who played the cheat; He lives a slave unto the last Unto the shame that mars his past. He only freedom here may own Whose name a stain has never known.

Alone

Strange thoughts come to the man alone; 'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God, And views himself as a single clod In the soil of life where the souls are grown. 'Tis then he questions the why and where, The start and end of his years and days, And what is blame and what is praise, And what is ugly and what is fair.

When a man has drawn from the busy throng To the sweet retreat of the silent hours, Low voices whisper of higher powers. He catches the strain of some far-off song, And the sham fades out and his eyes can see, Not the man he is in the day's hot strife And the greed and grind of a selfish life, But the soul of the man he is to be.

He feels the throbbing of life divine, And catches a glimpse of the greater plan; He questions the purpose and work of man. In the hours of silence his mind grows fine; He seeks to learn what is kept unknown; He turns from self and its garb of clay And dwells on the soul and the higher way. Strange thoughts come when a man's alone.

Shut-Ins

We're gittin' so we need again To see the sproutin' seed again. We've been shut up all winter long Within our narrow rooms; We're sort o' shriveled up an' dry-- Ma's cranky-like an' quick to cry; We need the blue skies overhead, The garden with its blooms.

I'm findin' fault with this an' that! I threw my bootjack at the cat Because he rubbed against my leg-- I guess I'm all on edge; I'm fidgety an' fussy too, An' Ma finds fault with all I do; It seems we need to see again The green upon the hedge.

We've been shut up so long, it seems We've lost the glamour of our dreams. We've narrowed down as people will Till fault is all we see. We need to stretch our souls in air Where there is room enough to spare; We need the sight o' something green On every shrub an' tree.

But soon our petulance will pass-- Our feet will tread the dew-kissed grass; Our souls will break their narrow cells, An' swell with love once more. And with the blue skies overhead, The harsh an' hasty words we've said Will vanish with the snow an' ice, When spring unlocks the door.

The sun will make us sweet again With blossoms at our feet again; We'll wander, arm in arm, the ways Where beauty reigns supreme. An' Ma an' I shall smile again, An' be ourselves awhile again, An' claim, like prisoners set free, The charm of every dream.

The Cut-Down Trousers

When father couldn't wear them mother cut them down for me; She took the slack in fore and aft, and hemmed them at the knee; They fitted rather loosely, but the things that made me glad Were the horizontal pockets that those good old trousers had.

They shone like patent leather just where well-worn breeches do, But the cloth in certain portions was considered good as new, And I know that I was envied by full many a richer lad For the horizontal pockets that those good old knickers had.

They were cut along the waist line, with the opening straight and wide, And there wasn't any limit to what you could get inside; They would hold a peck of marbles, and a knife and top and string, And snakes and frogs and turtles; there was room for everything.

Then our fortune changed a little, and my mother said that she Wouldn't bother any longer fitting father's duds on me, But the store clothes didn't please me; there were times they made me sad, For I missed those good old pockets that my father's trousers had.

Dinner-Time

Tuggin' at your bottle, An' it's O, you're mighty sweet! Just a bunch of dimples From your top-knot to your feet, Lying there an' gooin' In the happiest sort o' way, Like a rosebud peekin' at me In the early hours o' day; Gloating over goodness That you know an' sense an' clutch, An' smilin' at your daddy, Who loves you, O, so much!

Tuggin' at your bottle, As you nestle in your crib, With your daddy grinnin' at you 'Cause you've dribbled on your bib, An' you gurgle an' you chortle Like a brook in early Spring; An' you kick your pink feet gayly, An' I think you'd like to sing. All you wanted was your dinner, Daddy knew it too, you bet! An' the moment that you got it Then you ceased to fuss an' fret.

Tuggin' at your bottle, Not a care, excepting when You lose the rubber nipple, But you find it soon again; An' the gurglin' an' the gooin' An' the chortlin' start anew, An' the kickin' an' the squirmin' Show the wondrous joy o' you. But I'll bet you're not as happy At your dinner, little tot, As the weather-beaten daddy Who is bendin' o'er your cot!

The Pay Envelope

Is it all in the envelope holding your pay? Is that all you're working for day after day? Are you getting no more from your toil than the gold That little enclosure of paper will hold? Is that all you're after; is that all you seek? Does that close the deal at the end of the week?

Is it all in the envelope holding his pay? Is that all you offer him day after day? Is that all he wins by his labor from you? Is that the reward for the best he can do? Would you say of your men, when the week has been turned, That all they've received is the money they've earned?

Is it all in the envelope, workman and chief? Then loyalty's days must be fleeting and brief; If you measure your work by its value in gold The sum of your worth by your pay shall be told; And if something of friendship your men do not find Outside of their envelopes, you're the wrong kind.

If all that you offer is silver and gold, You haven't a man in your plant you can hold. If all that you're after each week is your pay, You are doing your work in a short-sighted way; For the bigger rewards it is useless to hope If you never can see past the pay envelope.

The Evening Prayer